


Let the Flies Gather 'Round Like You're Carrion

by The_Lame_Goat



Series: Port City Randos [4]
Category: Superpose (Webcomic)
Genre: A bunch of flies, AU: Man Over Heaven, Gen, M/M, brief Joseph/Risel, like a swarm of them, unlikely conversations about angels and god, within the context of M/H
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 07:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17039264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lame_Goat/pseuds/The_Lame_Goat
Summary: Joseph has gotten the news that his brother has disappeared from his Service post, and he thinks he knows where he's gone. His pondering attracts company.





	Let the Flies Gather 'Round Like You're Carrion

Joseph Vega is sure that his brother has defected to Antarctica. 

He sits at the shore like a child would, sand surely gathering into the nooks and crannies of his jeans, and stares at the piece of driftwood before him. It's bleached bone-white, curved like an elephant's tusk, and gathering in the middle of it is a swarm of flies. 

The sun glitters off their small bodies like chips of cheap glass colored blue and green, and he wonders about the sun in Antarctica. He's heard rumors of the Arctic Circle, of months of complete darkness and midnight suns, but has never looked far enough into it himself. He imagines Jana trying to sleep under a midnight sun; bright light seeping past the closed eyelids of a beast seeking slumber, tucked in under an electric blanket. For a second the thought is mildly funny, but it sours quickly. 

Joseph isn't alone on the beach, families flit back and forth out of his peripheral, and even if he was, the shore would be far from quiet. There's no hushing the waves. But even among the throng of the world Joseph feels as if, even if just slightly, he can hear the crunch of fly bodies as they bump into each other, crawl over their neighbors, hell they could be fucking, he doesn't know. And yet, he sort of wants to. 

He isn't exactly an expert on trees, but he figures that driftwood wouldn't have enough sap left over to entice a single fly, let alone the hundreds that have gathered. The obvious slowly comes to him, a creeping realization. There must be something dead under there. A mouse maybe, or a crab. Maybe even part of a bigger animal. There's a morbid sense of excitement that rises in his chest, flutters, and he breaks from his near stock-still vigil. 

He searches passively for a stick, first simply by feeling the sand around him, then by turning his body, muscles and bones protest with the new movement, and finds one within arms reach. He leans first to the side to grab it, then forward to press it into the writhing mass. 

"Stop that", says a voice. 

And he stops. With the point of the stick just centimeters from one of the fattest of the swarm he twists his body around to find whoever addressed him. He doesn't recognize the voice, and there's no one even remotely near him save for an errant toddler, scooped up hurriedly by their father and taken back towards the boardwalk. 

A sort of rebellion stirs within him, emboldened by the knowledge that no one gives a shit about what he's doing. He takes the stick again, brandishes it the way one might hold a knife, and this time, stabs it into the flies. 

A hole opens up in the swarm, quick and coordinated, and as wood strikes bared wood, the stick in his hand cuts into his palm. Joseph rocks back, hissing, the stick dropping from his grip and onto the sand, the patch now dotted with small droplets of blood. 

"I told you to stop", says the voice, and this time Joseph knows where it comes from. He simply doesn't want to believe it. 

It's coming from the direction of the driftwood. 

Joseph steadies himself, right hand tightened in a fist to apply pressure to his wound, and faces the fly infested piece of wood. 

"You're the one talking to me." He says it softly, if the wood can't hear him that's its problem, he's not trying to look like the beach loony. 

"Of course", the voice says, impatience thinly veiled. "I don't take kindly to sticks being driven in my direction." 

"I just wanted to know what about you is attracting the flies." 

There's a pause, long enough for Joseph to wonder if whatever force possessing the wood has hung up on him, or if he's truly hallucinating. 

"I am the flies." 

Joseph stares as the bare stretch of driftwood is steadily covered once more by flies, and although he cannot possibly keep track of each individual fly, he swears he can feel all their eyes, what is surely millions of lenses, on him. 

"Gotta be honest with you", he croaks, " was kinda hoping you were the driftwood." 

"You'd rather find an angel in the dead limb of a tree than in a living being?" 

A couple of the flies buzz around in the air, and one lands on Joseph's sleeve. He fights the urge to swat at it. 

"Wasn't aware animals could become angels too", he says. "Let alone masses of animals. And out of the whole animal kingdom, you're a bunch of flies." His voice lowers to an almost inaudible mumble. "Sounds kinda suspicious to me."  


"No more suspicious than humans coming back from the dead. Don't you all have tales about such abominations?" 

"We got stories about flies too, Beelzebub." 

The fly on Joseph's sleeve rubs its back legs together. "That's far from my name." 

"Really?" Joseph can't help indulging the smile that tugs at the side of his mouth. "Because you sort of look like a Beelze to me, bub." 

The fly on his sleeve flies to his cheek, right next to his right eye, as if to give him a pointed stare. "I don't appreciate that joke", says the voice, before the fly buzzes back to the driftwood, this time taking a place on an unturned splinter. "You should show more respect to one of God's favored." 

"Does God form all His favorites from flies? Or are there like angelic wolf packs running around too?" 

"You joke, but should be more than thankful to run into a pack of beasts rather than those you've taken to calling angels." 

Something unpleasant stirs in the pit of his stomach, and Joseph swallows with difficulty. "You really seem to have a bone to pick with angels, huh?" 

At that all the flies turn to face him, every single compound eye and even the wriggling miniscule head of a maggot settles on his being and Joseph fights the urge to scramble away. 

"You can't tell me you've never wondered why angels trip over themselves when they speak of God", the voice sounds different this time, has swelled to many voices, a chorus. Joseph fights the urge to clap his hands over his ears. 

"He's never visited them. The few who do speak surely of him are too cocksure, too detailed in their depictions of Him, have glutted themselves on scripture and hearsay and regurgitate what they feel will grant them the most clout. You know this. Those who do hesitate are also not to be trusted. When He's near, there are no words to describe it, but you _know_. 

"Only the devil brings truth to question. God will tell you, as I have told you." With that the flies begin to leave the driftwood in chunks, some carrying maggots in their brittle legs, until there was just one left on the driftwood, the one standing on the splinter. It cleans its eyes with its front legs. "Only the infernal ask, Joseph. And your brother has asked quite a few questions." Then it too, flies away. 

Joseph releases tension he hadn't realized he was holding and gingerly unclenches his right hand. The blood had congealed to a thick sort of gel, and his movement seemed to bring forth a new spurt of fresh blood, though it bleeds slowly. He grimaces and goes to poke at it, only to flinch and nearly fall on his back when someone's hand lands on his shoulder. 

"Joey", says Risel, voice low and deep and familiar. "Your hand--" 

Joseph uses his elbows to push himself first onto his knees, then gratefully takes the hand offered to him and allows himself to be hauled onto his feet. "Thanks", he says, making sure to use the back of his right hand while brushing down his pants. He gives up a couple of seconds in. He meets Risel's expression, the man has the type of face that looks particularly solemn when concerned, and stuffs his hand into his pocket. "It's fine. Just a scrape." 

Risel nods but looks unconvinced, his gaze lingering on Joseph's wrist. "Sorry to have left you here for so long, but you were right about the line." 

"You should trust a local's intuition", Joseph says, turning back the way Risel came. "Let's head back. Kinda had my fill of the beach for today." 

Risel follows him, at first silently, and then softly he asks," Can I hold your hand?" 

Joseph feels his hand bump against his own and the nearly overwhelming urge to pull away. He freezes instead, and feels each individual finger as it curls around his. He feels the blood gather in his other hand, thinks of the way it'll stain the inside of his pocket. 

Flies swarm on sun-dried tree bones, and all Joseph is sure of is that his brother has defected to Antarctica. 


End file.
